


For Always

by Lynchy8



Series: Take Your Chance [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Biting, Dark Jehan, Dark R, First Times, Fucked Up Relationship, Knives, M/M, Oneshot, Oral Sex, Tattoos, Violence, cum as lube, dystopian au, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my gosh, is that a bite mark?!”</p>
<p>While cleaning Grantaire up after a job goes slightly wrong, Jehan stumbles across a mark on the man's back.</p>
<p>A quick oneshot looking at Enjolras and Grantaire's relationship in the immediate aftermath of the events that resulted in them both being sent to Auxxone.</p>
<p>Part of the Take Your Chance verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Always

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: knives (not knife play, just violence) mentions of blood, death, violence and apparently I know a little too much about how to cut someone's throat...
> 
> Grantaire and Enjolras were 16 during the flashback scene (in case anyone is squicked - I consider that to be of age, but others may not). The start of the piece is set sometime before the group meets Marius. Jehan taught Grantaire how to use knives and at this point he is still learning the finer details.

As they came through the door, not quite as gracefully as was usual for Grantaire, the man in question headed straight for the bathroom, while Prouvaire carried out the usual post-job routines; making-safe, stripping their weapons down ready for a clean, oil and reassemble.

Prouvaire sat cross-legged on the floor, taking out his blades to clean them; Grantaire could see to his own guns. Jehan didn’t like guns as a general rule. They were noisy, lazy weapons; no finesse, no style or beauty, just a noise while you aim vaguely in your intended direction. Very R, he thought with a smile.

Knives, however, were another matter altogether. They were graceful, an art form. There was poetry to be found in the efficient employment of a sharp blade. Grantaire, under Jehan’s careful tutorage, was beginning to learn that. One day, if Jehan had his way, his young apprentice would leave guns behind completely.

Smiling at this thought, he looked up as Grantaire exited the bathroom. R glared back, his left arm at a diagonal across his chest, clamping down on his right shoulder.

“I don’t see what you’re so fucking chirpy about,” he grumbled, moving across the room. “Take a look will you? Might need stitches.”

Jehan sighed. Ordinarily Grantaire moved like a shadow, but that didn’t mean that they were never caught off guard. Cuts and bruises were all part of the job. This particular target had put up a bit of a fight, not wanting to go quietly. Prouvaire knew that Grantaire preferred his prey to struggle, that it felt more dignified where a kill had at least attempted to preserve their pathetic excuse for a life. There was more sport to be found in a target that didn’t simply roll over and accept what was about to happen to them.

But of course this increased the odds of one of them picking up an injury. In this case, the target had slashed at Grantaire with a letter opener.

“More of a sacrificial knife,” Grantaire spat, sitting down in front of Prouvaire, leaning forward to give his partner a better look. “Enjolras is going to have a fit.”

Jehan assessed the damage. It wasn’t so much the depth as the length of the cut that gave him pause. Stitches wouldn’t hurt, if he was honest. Sighing, he stood to get the kit.

Cleaning up wounds was par for the course between them now. They had been on so many jobs together it was part of their normal. They watched each other’s backs, one sleeping one awake, shared a toothbrush more than once, as well as body heat, weaponry and anything else the one might have that the other needed. They were a strange couple, except that R belonged to another; or maybe he possessed another, Jehan had never been able to decide. Either way, he knew where he belonged in the scheme of things.

He didn’t doubt Grantaire’s regard for him for a moment. Grantaire had fought for him, had earned his loyalty a thousand times since that messy brawl as teenagers in a half-forgotten food hall. Jehan respected Enjolras but he loved Grantaire. He and R were bound by familiarity, a tight bond only forged through shared experience. In the heat of an exchange he could always count on Grantaire, knew how the man would move and react given any number of factors. 

Which is why he really shouldn’t have been surprised when R turned his back on the target who wasn’t quite dead. Grantaire was used to blowing people’s brains out; not a lot of people fought back with most of their cerebral cortex on the back wall. Only Grantaire hadn’t been using his trusty hand gun; Jehan had talked him into using a blade for once. His technique had been good in theory, but R had made a classic school-boy error, tipping the head of his victim back before making his move. As a result, only one of the two arteries had been severed. It was a fatal blow, nonetheless, but it had allowed the flailing and dying man to reach out to his desk, to seize the sharp and undeniably impressive letter opener and cause damage.

Prouvaire had finished the man off, leaping forward and snapping his neck, quick and efficient, before the pair of them left, one hissing oaths under his breath, the other rolling his eyes and slightly dreading having to explain to their chief how Grantaire came to be injured by office stationery. 

As Jehan set about cleaning the wound, wiping a damp cloth across Grantaire’s shoulders, he came across a mark that wouldn’t quite shift, no matter how hard Jehan scrubbed.

“Give it a rest, Prouvaire,” Grantaire hissed, not appreciating the man’s efforts at all.

“I’m just trying to shift some dirt while I’m here, you filthy creature. How the hell does Enjolras put up with you?” Jehan grimaced, trying once again to remove what looked like dark red muck.

“It’s a tattoo, Prouvaire, for fuck’s sake. Take more than soap and water to shift it!” 

Jehan stopped in surprise. He had known Grantaire for how long? How had he not known the man had ink? He leaned forward, running his finger lightly over the mark, trying to discern pattern or shape. Now that he knew it wasn’t dirt, he began to make out the shape more clearly. There were several marks, all in dark red, running in an uneven curve almost like morse code, extending nearly two inches. There was another row in a similar but opposite shape a few inches beneath, the marks even straighter there. Something about them seemed familiar.

“Oh my gosh, is that a bite mark?!”

Grantaire smiled, partly because only Prouvaire would use the word “gosh”, but mostly because of the memories that sprang to mind at that moment.

“It is, isn’t it; those are Enjolras’s teeth in your shoulder. You kinky fuck!” Jehan slapped his back playfully, ignoring how Grantaire winced.

+

Shooting the traitor who had blabbed to the Head Ward about Enjolras’s speeches in the common room had been easy. The fact that he had been forced to be so public about it was just an unfortunate side-effect, a repercussion Grantaire would just have to live with, as long as the main message of the exercise got through. Grantaire had now proved himself; Enjolras would know that he had meant it when he said that he believed.

Much as he had anticipated, Grantaire had spent the five days following the Incident studying in solitary confinement while an enquiry was held. At night he returned to the dormitory where most people were far too terrified to talk to him. He was used to it; most people fell silent when he entered a room anyway. The fact that their stares were now ones of terror rather than distaste was actually an improvement, in his view.

But he had yet to see Enjolras. He worried that perhaps he had come on too strong, that maybe he had misunderstood what Enjolras had meant when he asked Grantaire to prove his loyalty. Perhaps Enjolras was like all the others, wide-eyed and appalled at the boy’s actions. Everyone knew, of course, that Grantaire was a killer. Furthermore, while Grantaire had never been part of Enjolras’s group, he had always been present, watching and listening. They knew that Grantaire had sat with Enjolras at lunch since Enjolras’s public fall from grace. It wasn’t hard to deduce that the Incident on the training field wasn’t the accident that it might otherwise have appeared.

_Let them think what they like_ , Grantaire shrugged. There was only one person’s opinion that he cared about.

He was returning to his dormitory after another day in solitary when someone grabbed his arm and pulled him into one of the bathrooms on the top corridor. The door was shut and the bolt slotted into place before Grantaire had a chance to raise his fists, but he quickly relaxed, forcing his pulse to calm when he saw that his assailant probably meant no harm; even if he did mean harm, Grantaire wouldn’t have cared much either way.

“Enjolras,” he breathed, letting his eyes soak up every detail of being in the boy’s presence for the first time in a week.

“Why did you do it?” Enjolras was burning with curiosity, his arms folded. The boy was chewing on his lower lip, not out of nervousness but of habit. He stared down at Grantaire as though he could divine the truth by glare alone.

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders; surely that should have been obvious.

“Because he betrayed you,” he replied. Enjolras wrinkled his nose and Grantaire tried to ignore the swooping sensation in his gut.

“I don’t understand. You weren’t one of them,” Enjolras sounded annoyed, almost petulant, as though Grantaire was the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered. “You argued with me, you said that nothing would ever change, that it couldn’t be made better –” Enjolras broke off as though he had run out of words, his beautiful face unusually severe as he tried to work out what game Grantaire was playing. 

“I was always there, wasn’t I? I always listened to you. I told you,” R sighed, as if Enjolras was being unnecessarily stupid, as though the man was making it more complicated than it need be.

“I believe in you.”

Suddenly Enjolras lurched forward, grabbing Grantaire and pushing him against the wall of the bathroom and Grantaire got a moment to appreciate the blazing expression of focus on Enjolras’s face before the boy kissed him.

For a first kiss, it was neither tender, nor gentle. It was harsh and angry and possessive, Enjolras’s teeth sinking hard into Grantaire’s lower lip, making him whine slightly in surprise. Enjolras’s scent was one of buttery warm skin, the standard issue soap and something else; something light and heavenly that crawled under Grantaire’s skin and settled there, filling his lungs and flushing through his veins.

He brought up his hands, talking advantage of the situation to run his fingers through that glorious mop of golden tresses because if the world had gone mad then he was damn well going to make the most of it. He had no idea why Enjolras was kissing him as though oxygen was on ration, but he wasn’t about to complain.

“You believe in me.” It was a statement, not a question. Enjolras was tousled, his hair askew where Grantaire had knotted his fingers, cheeks flushed pink and his lower lip kissed red.

“Yes,” Grantaire confirmed, staring into Enjolras’s eyes, willing the boy to believe him. Enjolras kissed him again. It was passionate and intense and so very Enjolras. Then he was gone.

Grantaire’s eyes fluttered open, vaguely aware of nimble fingers at his waist, the click of his belt buckle and hiss of his zip. Enjolras was on his knees below him and that, surely, was all wrong. It should be Grantaire on his knees before this heavenly creature; but before he could object, his trousers were being hoiked down to his thighs. Enjolras blinked up at him.

“I want to suck you off and then I’m going to fuck you. If you don’t want that, if you don’t want me, you better say so now. Because once I have you, you have me.” Grantaire’s world had narrowed right down to the blue eyes gazing up at him.

“For always,” Enjolras finished, looking suddenly very young, his earnest expression very determined, and Grantaire couldn’t help how weak his knees suddenly felt. He was accepted, he was wanted. Enjolras wanted him for always.

He reached out and took Enjolras’s hand, soft in his own rougher palm.

“I want this,” his voice sounded strange in his ears, almost strangled, but the words were said and Enjolras fell to his task with alacrity.

Of all Grantaire’s filthy thoughts surrounding the object of his fascination, this had undoubtedly been one of his favourites but the reality was almost overwhelming. The tongue that spoke so passionately was well employed and Grantaire could feel his legs shaking as he leaned back against the wall in an attempt to hold himself up.

Enjolras’s hands found his hips, long fingers digging in sharply as the boy enveloped Grantaire’s cock in wet heat, his tongue swirling and teasing, head bobbing. It was rough and inexperienced to the point of naive, but it was heaven as far as Grantaire was concerned. Unsure what to do with his hands, he settled for running them through Enjolras’s hair, the soft locks proving a useful grounding tool as his mind threatened to skip off the face of the planet when he considered what was occurring.

All too soon, he could feel his orgasm approaching. Enjolras had now hollowed his cheeks and was shamelessly sucking Grantaire off, going for speed rather than style, as though Grantaire could give a fuck because _Enjolras was sucking him off in a bathroom_ and if any of the Wards walked in right now there would be hell to pay.

Grantaire almost protested when Enjolras pulled off him, sitting back on his heels for a moment, breathing hard. 

“I want you to come in my mouth,” he instructed, almost glaring up at Grantaire, daring the boy fucking his face to disagree. “Don’t hold back on me now, I want you to come.”

Grantaire wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to deserve this, but for some reason all his birthdays had arrived at once and if Enjolras wanted Grantaire to come in his mouth, then that was what Grantaire would do.

It didn’t take much more after that, not with the way Enjolras bobbed his head, one of his hands reaching up to stroke the base of R’s shaft, his thumb brushing at his balls before pressing a wandering finger to Grantaire’s perineum. Grantaire bit down on his arm to stifle a cry as he came, his whole body suddenly going limp where moments before it had been tightly wound like a spring.

“Enjolras,” he gasped, opening his eyes. But Enjolras was sitting back on his heels, manoeuvring himself to stand. He grabbed Grantaire, almost roughly, spinning the boy round to face the wall. Strong hands manipulated Grantaire into place, pulling his arse out and kicking his legs apart. Head still fogged from his orgasm, R let Enjolras get on with it, allowing himself to be put in whatever position Enjolras wanted. He heard the boy spit behind him; he shivered slightly as something warm and wet was pressed between his cheeks. He suddenly realised Enjolras’s intention to use his cum to stretch him. Heat shot through his gut and his spent cock twitched at the very thought of it.

“Would you do it again?” Enjolras sounded wrecked, his voice breathy and low. Grantaire pushed back from the wall as a finger intruded slightly at his hole. He let out a petulant whine as it withdrew.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras drawled out the syllables of his name and R wanted to hear Enjolras say his name like that over and over. “Would you kill for me again?”

“Yes,” R replied. Because he would. Enjolras would only have to say the word and he would fulfil his task or die trying. He cried out as he was breached; what felt like two fingers were pushing and rotating inside him. He had fingered himself before whenever he’d had the luxury of showering alone, but this was completely different; this was _Enjolras_.

When Enjolras entered him, Grantaire couldn’t keep in the shout as his body stretched around the intrusion, spit and cum not being quite enough. He pushed back automatically, drawing Enjolras further in, all of his senses confused between pain and glory. Enjolras settled over his back, resting his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder, the brunet bracing himself against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut as he adjusted to this new reality.

“Fuck, Grantaire!” Enjolras exhaled, his breath soft against R’s skin. They remained like that for a long moment, both completely still. Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s torso, almost holding onto him. The next moment, in a surprisingly tender gesture, Enjolras pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s shoulder through his shirt. Grantaire turned his head, breathing in as he buried his face in Enjolras’s curls.

When Enjolras finally began to move, grinding against Grantaire in short, shallow thrusts, they both remained silent; only their harsh breathing filling the room. Enjolras continued to kiss Grantaire’s neck, arms still wrapped round the boy as he began to speed up his movements.

Grantaire thought he might die, he was so unbelievably happy. His entire body was on fire and he was on sensory overload but he was the luckiest fucker in the world and there were worse ways to go than being fucked by Enjolras. He half wanted someone to walk in and find them like this because no one would ever believe him if he told them, he was quite sure.

Enjolras’s grip shifted as he sought a better angle. Grantaire let him do as he pleased; he was far too exhausted, too overwhelmed, to do anything other than be fucked the way Enjolras wanted. He wasn’t sure how long it went on for, only that he was hard again to the point of it being painful. Enjolras was breathless and he was soaked in sweat, his palms slipping on the tiles while he tried to hold position. He was so full and every time Enjolras moved inside him it was bliss; painful, terrible bliss.

“Enjolras,” he groaned, leaning his forehead against the cold tiles, trying to find some relief. He needed to come; his belly was tight with it.

“You and I are going to do great things together, do you know that?” Enjolras grunted, slamming into Grantaire hard, snapping his hips violently back and forth. Grantaire whimpered, reaching down to take himself in hand, jerking off in time with Enjolras’s thrusts.

“Whatever happens to us, whatever they dream up for us, whatever they do; it won’t matter because we’ll always be better. It will always be us.” Enjolras continued to rant in Grantaire’s ear, speeding up his movements as he approached his climax. Suddenly Enjolras stilled, burying himself deep inside Grantaire. He bit down hard on the boy’s shoulder, stifling his shout as he came.

The pain in his shoulder brought Grantaire back to reality just as he spilt over his own hand. Unable to hold himself up any longer, he dropped to his knees, taking Enjolras with him. They sat on the floor of the bathroom in a tangled, sweaty heap, breathing hard. The whole room stank of sweat and sex and they were both sticky with it. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras gasped, bringing his hand up to the boy’s cheek, bringing their heads together. Grantaire went happily, pressing his forehead against Enjolras’s, looking into his eyes as though he was the centre of his turning world. He saw his expression reflected, although perhaps with more optimism, less cynicism and fewer scars. Enjolras smiled and it was dazzling.

“Next time, I want you to fuck me.”

Grantaire had only been able to nod, dimly aware of the whiz of a zip as Enjolras did up his trousers. Then the bathroom door had opened and closed, leaving Grantaire alone with only the ache in his arse and a set of teethmarks in his shoulder as proof of what had occurred.

When he finally managed to pull himself together, washing his hands and splashing water over his face, he had returned to his dormitory, making a plan to seek out Dieter, the seventeen year old who was reputedly half-decent at stick-and-poke tattoos. The bite mark in his shoulder was like a brand; Enjolras had marked him out and Grantaire wanted that mark to be permanent. With limited options available to him, this seemed like the easiest.

Dieter had raised his eyebrows but hadn’t asked any questions apart from what colour ink Grantaire would like. R hadn’t needed to think about it for very long.

“Red.”

Dieter shrugged and told Grantaire to take a seat.

+

“You wear Enjolras’s mark,” Jehan ran his fingers over the tattoo once more, as though expecting to feel the indent that had originally been left there all those years ago. Grantaire snorted.

“Don’t be jealous, Prouvaire, I wear yours too!” R proudly extended his arm for inspection. Sure enough, there on the wrist was a white faded scar, visible where the light caught it.

“A surprisingly sharp plastic fork,” Jehan mused, allowing a smile to cross his features. He ran his thumb over the mark, remembering how it had been delivered before their friendship had been struck. Strangely, he carried no corresponding evidence of that day.

“I wear it with pride, I assure you,” Grantaire smiled, surprisingly earnest, no mocking in his tone and no smirk on his face. He pulled Jehan into a hug. “I do not know where I would be without either of you, and I am glad to carry these small echoes of you both with me wherever I am.”

“You can be unbelievably eloquent when you want to be,” Jehan murmured, a blush rising in his cheeks. He knew what Grantaire meant but he didn’t know how he felt about that. With a deep, decisive breath, he pulled away.

“Let me stitch that thing up so we can get a few hours of rest before we go home. And if Enjolras asks, I will be sure to tell him that the target was armed with a machete.”

Grantaire’s laugher echoed throughout the room.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really wanted to go into more detail of the relationship R had with Jehan, as well as take the opportunity to look at the aftermath of the killing that sent them both to Auxxone and started them down their path.
> 
> Also, Prouvaire is the most delicious little killer that ever stumbled into my head. Don't get me wrong, I love Dark R, but Jehan is pretty gruesome in his own right.
> 
> thanks to Sarah for being able to look through this for me (and to Cat for offering as well x)
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger for TMI re killing:  
> I have it on good authority that if you are approaching someone from behind, it is better to hold the neck down in order to compress arteries and veins and everything else important together for maximum effect. So a surgeon friend said *shrugs* We writers need to know these things!


End file.
